VIII

From
Cape Pillar into the Pacific --Driven by a tempest
toward Cape Horn --Captain Slocum's greatest sea
adventure --Reaching the strait again by way of
Cockburn Channel --Some savages find the
carpet-tacks --Danger from firebrands --A series
of fierce williwaws --Again sailing westward

IT
was the 3d of March when the
Spray sailed from Port Tamar direct
for Cape Pillar, with the wind from the northeast,
which I fervently hoped might hold till she
cleared the land; but there was no such good luck
in store. It soon began to rain and thicken in
the northwest, boding no good. The
Spray neared Cape Pillar rapidly,
and, nothing loath, plunged into the Pacific Ocean
at once, taking her first bath of it in the
gathering storm. There was no turning back even
had I wished to do so, for the land was now shut
out by the darkness of night. The wind freshened,
and I took in a third reef. The sea was confused
and treacherous. In such a time as this the old
fisherman prayed, "Remember, Lord, my ship is
small and thy sea is so wide!" I saw now only
the gleaming crests of the waves. They showed
white teeth while the sloop balanced over them.
"Everything for an offing," I cried, and
to this end I carried on all the sail she would
bear. She ran all night with a free sheet, but on
the morning of March 4 the wind shifted to
southwest, then back suddenly to northwest, and
blew with terrific force. The Spray,
stripped of her sails, then bore off under bare
poles. No ship in the world could have stood up
against so violent a gale. Knowing that this
storm might continue for many days, and that it
would be impossible to work back to the westward
along the coast outside of Tierra del Fuego, there
seemed nothing to do but to keep on and go east
about, after all. Anyhow, for my present safety
the only course lay in keeping her before the
wind. And so she drove southeast, as though about
to round the Horn, while the waves rose and fell
and bellowed their never-ending story of the sea;
but the Hand that held these held also the
Spray. She was running now with a
reefed forestaysail, the sheets flat amidship. I
paid out two long ropes to steady her course and
to break combing seas astern, and I lashed the
helm amidship. In this trim she ran before it,
shipping never a sea. Even while the storm raged
at its worst, my ship was wholesome and noble. My
mind as to her seaworthiness was put at ease for
aye.

When all had been done that I could do for the
safety of the vessel, I got to the fore-scuttle,
between seas, and prepared a pot of coffee over a
wood fire, and made a good Irish stew. Then, as
before and afterward on the Spray, I
insisted on warm meals. In the tide-race off Cape
Pillar, however, where the sea was marvelously
high, uneven, and crooked, my appetite was slim,
and for a time I postponed cooking.
(Confidentially, I was seasick!)

The first day of the storm gave the
Spray her actual test in the worst
sea that Cape Horn or its wild regions could
afford, and in no part of the world could a
rougher sea be found than at this particular
point, namely, off Cape Pillar, the grim sentinel
of the Horn.

Farther offshore, while the sea was majestic,
there was less apprehension of danger. There the
Spray rode, now like a bird on the
crest of a wave, and now like a waif deep down in
the hollow between seas; and so she drove on.
Whole days passed, counted as other days, but with
always a thrill--yes, of delight.

On the fourth day of the gale, rapidly nearing
the pitch of Cape Horn, I inspected my chart and
pricked off the course and distance to Port
Stanley, in the Falkland Islands, where I might
find my way and refit, when I saw through a rift
in the clouds a high mountain, about seven leagues
away on the port beam. The fierce edge of the
gale by this time had blown off, and I had already
bent a square-sail on the boom in place of the
mainsail, which was torn to rags. I hauled in the
trailing ropes, hoisted this awkward sail reefed,
the forestaysail being already set, and under this
sail brought her at once on the wind heading for
the land, which appeared as an island in the sea.
So it turned out to be, though not the one I had
supposed.

I was exultant over the prospect of once more
entering the Strait of Magellan and beating
through again into the Pacific, for it was more
than rough on the outside coast of Tierra del
Fuego. It was indeed a mountainous sea. When the
sloop was in the fiercest squalls, with only the
reefed forestaysail set, even that small sail
shook her from keelson to truck when it shivered
by the leech. Had I harbored the shadow of a
doubt for her safety, it would have been that she
might spring a leak in the garboard at the heel of
the mast; but she never called me once to the
pump. Under pressure of the smallest sail I could
set she made for the land like a race-horse, and
steering her over the crests of the waves so that
she might not trip was nice work. I stood at the
helm now and made the most of it.

Night closed in before the sloop reached the
land, leaving her feeling the way in pitchy
darkness. I saw breakers ahead before long. At
this I wore ship and stood offshore, but was
immediately startled by the tremendous roaring of
breakers again ahead and on the lee bow. This
puzzled me, for there should have been no broken
water where I supposed myself to be. I kept off a
good bit, then wore round, but finding broken
water also there, threw her head again offshore.
In this way, among dangers, I spent the rest of
the night. Hail and sleet in the fierce squalls
cut my flesh till the blood trickled over my face;
but what of that? It was daylight, and the sloop
was in the midst of the Milky Way of the sea,
which is northwest of Cape Horn, and it was the
white breakers of a huge sea over sunken rocks
which had threatened to engulf her through the
night. It was Fury Island I had sighted and
steered for, and what a panorama was before me now
and all around! It was not the time to complain
of a broken skin. What could I do but fill away
among the breakers and find a channel between
them, now that it was day? Since she had escaped
the rocks through the night, surely she would find
her way by daylight. This was the greatest sea
adventure of my life. God knows how my vessel
escaped.

The sloop at last reached inside of small
islands that sheltered her in smooth water. Then
I climbed the mast to survey the wild scene
astern. The great naturalist Darwin looked over
this seascape from the deck of the
Beagle, and wrote in his journal,
"Any landsman seeing the Milky Way would have
nightmare for a week." He might have added,
"or seaman" as well.

The Spray's good luck followed
fast. I discovered, as she sailed along through a
labyrinth of islands, that she was in the Cockburn
Channel, which leads into the Strait of Magellan
at a point opposite Cape Froward, and that she was
already passing Thieves' Bay, suggestively named.
And at night, March 8, behold, she was at anchor
in a snug cove at the Turn! Every heart-beat on
the Spray now counted thanks.

Here I pondered on the events of the last few
days, and, strangely enough, instead of feeling
rested from sitting or lying down, I now began to
feel jaded and worn; but a hot meal of venison
stew soon put me right, so that I could sleep. As
drowsiness came on I sprinkled the deck with
tacks, and then I turned in, bearing in mind the
advice of my old friend Samblich that I was not to
step on them myself. I saw to it that not a few
of them stood "business end" up; for
when the Spray passed Thieves' Bay
two canoes had put out and followed in her wake,
and there was no disguising the fact any longer
that I was alone.

Now, it is well known that one cannot step on a
tack without saying something about it. A pretty
good Christian will whistle when he steps on the
"commercial end" of a carpet-tack; a
savage will howl and claw the air, and that was
just what happened that night about twelve
o'clock, while I was asleep in the cabin, where
the savages thought they "had me," sloop
and all, but changed their minds when they stepped
on deck, for then they thought that I or somebody
else had them. I had no need of a dog; they
howled like a pack of hounds. I had hardly use
for a gun. They jumped pell-mell, some into their
canoes and some into the sea, to cool off, I
suppose, and there was a deal of free language
over it as they went. I fired several guns when I
came on deck, to let the rascals know that I was
home, and then I turned in again, feeling sure I
should not be disturbed any more by people who
left in so great a hurry.

The Fuegians, being cruel, are naturally
cowards; they regard a rifle with superstitious
fear. The only real danger one could see that
might come from their quarter would be from
allowing them to surround one within bow-shot, or
to anchor within range where they might lie in
ambush. As for their coming on deck at night,
even had I not put tacks about, I could have
cleared them off by shots from the cabin and hold.
I always kept a quantity of ammunition within
reach in the hold and in the cabin and in the
forepeak, so that retreating to any of these
places I could "hold the fort" simply by
shooting up through the deck.

Perhaps the greatest danger to be apprehended
was from the use of fire. Every canoe carries
fire; nothing is thought of that, for it is their
custom to communicate by smoke-signals. The
harmless brand that lies smoldering in the bottom
of one of their canoes might be ablaze in one's
cabin if he were not on the alert. The port
captain of Sandy Point warned me particularly of
this danger. Only a short time before they had
fired a Chilean gun-boat by throwing brands in
through the stern windows of the cabin. The
Spray had no openings in the cabin or
deck, except two scuttles, and these were guarded
by fastenings which could not be undone without
waking me if I were asleep.

On the morning of the 9th, after a refreshing
rest and a warm breakfast, and after I had swept
the deck of tacks, I got out what spare canvas
there was on board, and began to sew the pieces
together in the shape of a peak for my
square-mainsail, the tarpaulin. The day to all
appearances promised fine weather and light winds,
but appearances in Tierra del Fuego do not always
count. While I was wondering why no trees grew on
the slope abreast of the anchorage, half minded to
lay by the sail-making and land with my gun for
some game and to inspect a white boulder on the
beach, near the brook, a williwaw came down with
such terrific force as to carry the
Spray, with two anchors down, like a
feather out of the cove and away into deep water.
No wonder trees did not grow on the side of that
hill! Great Boreas! a tree would need to be all
roots to hold on against such a furious wind.

From the cove to the nearest land to leeward
was a long drift, however, and I had ample time to
weigh both anchors before the sloop came near any
danger, and so no harm came of it. I saw no more
savages that day or the next; they probably had
some sign by which they knew of the coming
williwaws; at least, they were wise in not being
afloat even on the second day, for I had no sooner
gotten to work at sail-making again, after the
anchor was down, than the wind, as on the day
before, picked the sloop up and flung her seaward
with a vengeance, anchor and all, as before. This
fierce wind, usual to the Magellan country,
continued on through the day, and swept the sloop
by several miles of steep bluffs and precipices
overhanging a bold shore of wild and uninviting
appearance. I was not sorry to get away from it,
though in doing so it was no Elysian shore to
which I shaped my course. I kept on sailing in
hope, since I had no choice but to go on, heading
across for St. Nicholas Bay, where I had cast
anchor February 19. It was now the 10th of March!
Upon reaching the bay the second time I had
circumnavigated the wildest part of desolate
Tierra del Fuego. But the Spray had
not yet arrived at St. Nicholas, and by the
merest accident her bones were saved from resting
there when she did arrive. The parting of a
staysail-sheet in a williwaw, when the sea was
turbulent and she was plunging into the storm,
brought me forward to see instantly a dark cliff
ahead and breakers so close under the bows that I
felt surely lost, and in my thoughts cried,
"Is the hand of fate against me, after all,
leading me in the end to this dark spot?" I
sprang aft again, unheeding the flapping sail, and
threw the wheel over, expecting, as the sloop came
down into the hollow of a wave, to feel her
timbers smash under me on the rocks. But at the
touch of her helm she swung clear of the danger,
and in the next moment she was in the lee of the
land.

It was the small island in the middle of the
bay for which the sloop had been steering, and
which she made with such unerring aim as nearly to
run it down. Farther along in the bay was the
anchorage, which I managed to reach, but before I
could get the anchor down another squall caught
the sloop and whirled her round like a top and
carried her away, altogether to leeward of the
bay. Still farther to leeward was a great
headland, and I bore off for that. This was
retracing my course toward Sandy Point, for the
gale was from the southwest.

I had the sloop soon
under good control, however, and in a short time
rounded to under the lee of a mountain, where the
sea was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the sails
flapped and hung limp while she carried her way
close in. Here I thought I would anchor and rest
till morning, the depth being eight fathoms very
close to the shore. But it was interesting to
see, as I let go the anchor, that it did not reach
the bottom before another williwaw struck down
from this mountain and carried the sloop off
faster than I could pay out cable. Instead of
resting, I had to "man the windlass "and
heave up the anchor and fifty fathoms of cable
hanging up and down in deep water. This was in
that part of the strait called Famine Reach. I
could have wished it Jericho! On that little
crab-windlass I worked the rest of the night,
thinking how much easier it was for me when I
could say, "Do that thing or the other,"
than to do it myself. But I hove away on the
windlass and sang the old chants that I sang when
I was a sailor, from "Blow, Boys, Blow for
Californy, O" to "Sweet By and
By."

It was daybreak when the anchor was at the
hawse. By this time the wind had gone down, and
cat's-paws took the place of williwaws. The sloop
was then drifting slowly toward Sandy Point. She
came within sight of ships at anchor in the roads,
and I was more than half minded to put in for new
sails, but the wind coming out from the northeast,
which was fair for the other direction, I turned
the prow of the Spray westward once
more for the Pacific, to traverse a second time
the second half of my first course through the
strait.